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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26520349">Pride and Forgiveness</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/trustingHim17/pseuds/trustingHim17'>trustingHim17</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Gen, Story: The Adventure of the Dying Detective</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 08:34:27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,719</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26520349</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/trustingHim17/pseuds/trustingHim17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>I had thought he was dying, and he was proud of it. It took everything in me to walk away instead of laying into him. <br/>Immediately post DYIN</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>23</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He had deceived me—again.</p>
<p>I knew enough to know that Culverton Smith had been a dangerous adversary, and I would not interfere with his right to celebrate, but I was sure my irritation, hurt, anger showed on my face despite my attempts to hide it, plain for him to see if only he looked. He was too caught up in the exultation of Smith’s capture to see anything but what he chose to see, however, and I said nothing. Holmes was right to celebrate the man’s capture, no matter my thoughts on the trap itself, and I simply studied my friend closely, watching for complications of his fast as I kept pushing him to drink more water. He could feel the effects of dehydration, and he did as I bid, slowly drinking each full glass I placed in his hand as he removed his disguise.</p>
<p>I silently watched as he cleaned off the makeup, and from his chair he proudly told me what he had done. He proudly told me about how he had gone nearly three days without food and water, how he had pretended to be delirious to make me think he was dying, how he had used the makeup to make himself look feverish, how he had <em>wanted</em> me to believe he had only hours or perhaps a day left on this earth.</p>
<p>How he decided to use me to catch Smith instead of trusting me to help catch Smith.</p>
<p>He had deceived me.</p>
<p>And he was proud of it.</p>
<p>That was the worst part: it was bad enough that he had deceived me, but that he was <em>proud</em> of it, that is what hurt the most. He was <em>proud</em> of the way he had fooled everyone into thinking he was dying. He was <em>proud</em> of his acting skills. He was <em>proud</em> that I had fallen for his act such that Smith had believed me and come to gloat.</p>
<p>I had thought he was dying, and he was proud of it.</p>
<p>I never liked it, but I was well used to him deceiving me. He manipulated others as a matter of course, and I rarely cared when it was within the bounds of a case. He was my intellectual superior, and I knew I would never be able to see through his manipulations. He was going to do whatever he felt was necessary to catch the criminal just as I would do whatever I felt was necessary whenever someone was injured or sick. He was a detective; it was his duty. If he needed to hide his intentions or manipulate me to do so, then that was his call.</p>
<p>No, I did not care so much that he had manipulated me, that he had deceived me. I cared that he apparently saw nothing wrong with making me think he was <em>dying</em>.</p>
<p>I continued pushing water on him as he gave his statement at the station, and when he suggested Simpson’s on the way back to Baker Street, I allowed it. He needed to eat, and he had put Mrs. Hudson out enough, with the fright he had given her. She would not have the supplies necessary to provide the kind of food he needed immediately, nor did I think it was even safe for her to be in the kitchen at the moment—rather like how I doubted it was safe for me to open my mouth.</p>
<p>I was furious with him, angrier than I had probably ever been. I was one wrong move, one ill-timed word away from losing my temper completely, and I fought to suppress my irritation. It would do us no good to argue—here or back at Baker Street. I would make sure he ate a full meal, see him back to his flat, and check on Mrs. Hudson. Then, I would go home until my red-hot anger cooled. Time, and sometimes a walk, had always helped when Holmes did something so infuriating, and whenever we had argued before my marriage, I had frequently ended up walking the streets until my irritation faded and remorse set in. I would prefer to avoid the entire succession.</p>
<p>I could not avoid the anger; it was much too late for that, but if I kept my mouth shut, I could at least avoid the argument and the following remorse. There was no need to criticize the foolish plan he had enacted; he would realize my opinion on his three-day fast sometime tomorrow or the next day—when the excitement of Smith’s capture had worn off and he looked at the case from a bit further away. Until then, anything I could say would only result in an argument, and that would do neither of us any good.</p>
<p>I listened to him talk as we ate, providing the expected responses, and I watched to make sure that he would suffer no lingering effects from this…case. He listened to me when I pushed soup or other light dishes instead of the heavy meats he normally gravitated towards, and he ordered water instead of a glass of wine after I tried to check his hydration level at the table. Eating slowly and talking between bites, he bounced between topics from his most recent monograph to his recent cases and a monograph on malingering he was considering.</p>
<p>I let him talk, though I heard little of what he said. I was too busy watching him to make sure there would be no further physical effects, too busy assuring myself that the funeral for which I had prepared myself on the way to fetch Smith would not come to pass. He did not seem to notice my silence, which was just as well. The things he had said on what I had thought was his deathbed still rang in my mind, no matter that I knew that the ones before Smith’s arrest were probably no more than the results of his malingering.</p>
<p>
  <em>If I am to have a doctor whether I will or not, let me at least have someone in whom I have some confidence.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>You are only a general practitioner with very limited experience and mediocre qualifications.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Good heavens! I had totally forgotten him.</em>
</p>
<p>I had thought he was dying, and he had forgotten me.</p>
<p>And he was proud of it.</p>
<p>He carried a one-sided conversation the entire time we were at the restaurant, too caught up in his monologue to notice that it was a monologue, and I saw him safely back to Baker Street after the meal was done. Mrs. Hudson met us at the door, and I could see she was still quite irritated with him as well, but I made no comment on that, only giving her some pointers on what he would need to fully recover before turning to leave. I refused to argue with him, and I would be of more use at home with Mary…who had <em>not</em> been faking an illness.</p>
<p>He stopped me. “You have barely spoken all evening, Watson. How is your practice? How is Mary?”</p>
<p>I remained quiet, unable to answer without losing my temper, and a hand appeared on my shoulder.</p>
<p>“Watson?”</p>
<p>“I thought I was watching you die, Holmes,” I finally said quietly, almost gruffly as I forbid my temper from erupting. I did not need to lose my temper for him to hear the anger roiling inside of me. I sharply pulled my shoulder from beneath his hand. “Next time you need someone to deceive, choose someone in whom you have <em>some confidence</em>.” Holmes said nothing, and I left, nearly slamming the door behind me.</p>
<p>I did not look back, heavily considering losing myself in the foggy rain blanketing London.</p>
<p>A hansom sped past me as I walked slowly down the street, but I paid it no mind, keeping my head bowed to the rain as I stared through the cobblestones. I had no money left after taking a cab to beat Smith back to Baker Street, and the walk would do me good anyway. My thoughts spun, chasing each other in circles of anger, hurt, and a few others. How could he think highly enough of our friendship to want me when Mrs. Hudson insisted on a doctor, but so lowly of me that he could callously deceive me in such a way? How could he think I could watch him die and do nothing? He <em>knew</em> how highly I valued our friendship. How could he think I could see him on his deathbed and be unaffected? He would never be able to do so if our positions had been reversed…</p>
<p>Would he? Did he think I could remain unaffected while watching him die because he did not care if I lived or died?</p>
<p>Was he projecting his perceptions onto me, or was he just being the self-centered detective I knew he could be at times?</p>
<p>I did not know, and I was not sure I wanted to know. My thoughts turned in circles, and I would have liked to walk aimlessly for a while to get them in order, but I turned my steps towards home, hoping nothing had changed since I left. Maybe the rain would wash away my irritation by the time I reached Kensington.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Holmes stared at the door that had just slammed shut, confused. Watson knew that everything Holmes had said and done in the bedroom had been part of the act, so why had Watson gotten so angry?</p>
<p>The door reopened before he had time to do much more than stare, and Mycroft barreled through—only to come to a halt a mere step from the door frame. A flash of relief appeared in his gaze, followed closely by anger, but Holmes spoke first.</p>
<p>“What are you doing here?” he asked, making no effort to hide his confusion both at Mycroft’s presence and Watson’s absence. His brother had always been able to read everything even better than he himself could, anyway.</p>
<p>Mycroft slowly closed the door behind him, leveling a glare Holmes had not seen for many years.</p>
<p>“The doctor sent me a message that you were deathly ill,” he finally answered after the door latched, his voice dangerously quiet, and Holmes fought the urge to step back. It was <em>never</em> good when Mycroft’s voice got that low, “and I just saw him walking along the street with his head down, yet you appear healthy enough, if a bit underfed. What have you done, Sherlock?”</p>
<p>He fidgeted for a moment instead of answering. He had not intended for Mycroft to get involved with this, but the glare his brother was currently leveling was too similar to the one Mycroft had used when Holmes was young. He could not easily blow the question off.</p>
<p>“Sherlock.” The name came out close to a growl, and every lesson Holmes had learned as a child came to fore. He nearly blurted his answer.</p>
<p>“I had to make Smith think I was dying to get a confession, and the only way for Smith to think I was dying was for Watson to convince him.”</p>
<p>“You did <em>what</em>? Sherlock!” Mycroft stepped further away from the door, his glare intensifying. “Have you already forgotten how you reacted when that attack at the Diogenes hit the newspapers?”</p>
<p>Holmes stilled, remembering the fear that had taken over when he saw the headline. A gang had decided to break into the Diogenes, thinking that government secrets were kept there as well as wanting to rob the higher-class patrons. The burglars had gotten carried away with their weapons, and two people had ended up dead, one of which was in the room Mycroft favored. Holmes had found himself frantically scanning faces on his way to the police-covered crime scene, the newspaper clenched in a white-knuckle grip. He had not relaxed until Mycroft had come up behind him, asking what he was doing halfway to Whitehall.</p>
<p>Some of Mycroft’s anger showed on his face as he read the memory on his brother’s. “You did that to him—and to <em>me</em>,” he growled before turning to leave. “And you did it on purpose. I do believe you know the word I am thinking right now.”</p>
<p>The door clicked shut behind him, much quieter than the slam of earlier, but Holmes nearly flinched at the sound as confusion fled behind understanding, then remorse.</p>
<p>He knew Watson saw him as a brother, no matter that Mycroft had been the one to point it out. Watson saw him as a brother, which meant that he had inflicted the same panic on Watson that he had felt on sighting that newspaper headline.</p>
<p>No, he had inflicted worse, because his fear had ended on seeing Mycroft. Watson’s had only grown on seeing Holmes and had lasted for <em>hours</em>. For two hours, he had made Watson sit in that bedroom, thinking he was watching Holmes die, then it had taken almost another hour before Morton had cuffed Smith and Holmes dropped the ruse.</p>
<p>He leaned against the banister, trying to look at the long, horrible day the way Watson must have seen it, and winced.</p>
<p>Watson had endured a panicked ride from Kensington thinking Holmes was dead or dying, sat for two long hours unable to do anything after Holmes had locked them in the bedroom, then been forbidden from moving from behind the headboard while Holmes pretended to be in his last moments and Smith <em>gloated</em> about how he had killed the master detective. And when he added the things he had said while trying to keep Watson from discovering the ruse, from leaving too early, from opening the box…</p>
<p>
  <em>Don’t budge, whatever happens—whatever happens, do you hear? Don’t speak! Don’t move!</em>
</p>
<p>It was a wonder Watson had not lost his temper. He would have been fully within his rights to lay into Holmes. Holmes would have been furious had the positions been reversed.</p>
<p>He pushed himself upright, turning to reach for his umbrella, but his body betrayed him. The room seemed to tilt despite the meal he had eaten, and he leaned against the banister again to let it pass. Three days of complete fasting were not easily thrown off in a single (small) meal, but he had no time to go back to bed. He needed to go after Watson.</p>
<p>With the room steadily upright once again, he reached for his overcoat only for a hand to snatch it out of reach.</p>
<p>“You are going nowhere yet, Mr. Holmes.”</p>
<p>Mrs. Hudson had been standing in the kitchen doorway since Mycroft had left, but he had been hoping that she would leave if he ignored her. That apparently was not an option.</p>
<p>“I need to go after Watson,” he replied, reaching for the coat she still held.</p>
<p>“Of course, you do, but it will do you no good to faint as soon as you reach him. I have some soup in the kitchen, and I doubt you ate much at Simpson’s. Finish that and a glass of water before you go.”</p>
<p>He sighed. The further away Watson got, the harder it was going to be to fix this, but she had a point. It would do neither of them any good for Holmes to faint as soon as he found his friend.</p>
<p>He followed Mrs. Hudson into the kitchen.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I went to the bedroom first, needing to check on Mary, to make sure nothing had gone wrong in my absence. She had contracted a nasty cold the week before, and it was only just beginning to abate.</p>
<p>She slept peacefully, apparently not even aware that I had left for a few hours, and I took myself back outside to get my thoughts in order. The sound of the rain was soothing, and I ignored the throbbing in my leg to use the rain to focus my thoughts.</p>
<p>How could Holmes do such a thing?</p>
<p>I leaned against the wall in the shadows near the front step, letting my thoughts wander, though I was careful to stay in an area where I would hear Mary if she woke. How could Holmes think that I would be alright with what he had done? How could he expect me to be proud of his acting skills when he had used them to make me think he was dying?</p>
<p>How could he think that I would be unaffected by his trick after he dropped the ruse? This was not the first time he had deceived me, and we had argued nearly every time he did so outside of a case—and occasionally during a case—but this was the only time he had ever made me think he was dying. Was he really that selfish? Did he really care so little about our friendship that he saw me as just another tool to use in catching a criminal?</p>
<p>I didn’t think so, but I wasn’t sure anymore, and I stood quietly, thinking it over, fighting to dissolve the anger still roiling inside of me. I would eventually go back by Baker Street—I could never stay angry with him for long—but with Mary resting inside, I was content to listen to the rain as I let my thoughts wander, trying to calm my irritation so I could understand why he had done such a thing.</p>
<p>The occasional cab passed, and I used them as miniature distractions, turning my thoughts to wondering where they were going and what they were doing for a few moments at a time. Soon enough, however, the only sound was the rain, and my thoughts turned inward again, drifting through questions and topics as I tried to release my hurt and anger before I went back inside. I had no wish to wake Mary, and the thrumming of the rain on the buildings, the street, the canopy above me was almost therapeutic in its consistency.</p>
<p>Another cab rattled down the cobblestones, breaking me out of my train of thought as I reflexively glanced up. It pulled to a stop near my door, and I pushed myself upright, staying close to the wall to be out of the rain as I moved closer to the door of my practice. Late night calls were rarely good for the patient, but I would welcome the distraction for a while.</p>
<p>A tall man, bundled in several layers against the chilly wet, slowly climbed out of the cab and strode toward the door, and I called out, hoping to prevent him from waking Mary.</p>
<p>“Don’t knock.” The man spun toward my voice, and I limped closer to the darkened porch, only just realizing that I had not moved in much too long. I ignored it, more focused on who was looking for a doctor so late at night. “I am Doctor Watson. What—”</p>
<p>I finally got a look at the man’s face, and I realized it was Holmes, not a patient. I tried to move faster. Angry with him or not, he should not be outside in such wet weather.</p>
<p>“What are you doing here?” I pushed open the door, hurrying him through the consulting rooms and into my sitting room as I continued quietly, “You should not be out in this weather, Holmes, not in your weakened condition.”</p>
<p>“I could say the same about you,” he replied, hanging his drenched overcoat on the rack as I built a fire. “What were you doing standing outside?”</p>
<p>I gestured for him to lower his voice. “Thinking. Mary is asleep, and she needs the rest.”</p>
<p>He froze, reading more into my words than I had intended him to, and looked over at where I awkwardly knelt in front of the hearth, the coat I had yet to remove dripping on the floor. “What is wrong with her?” he asked, almost sharply.</p>
<p>“She caught a nasty cold last week. She is recovering, but this is the best sleep she has gotten in days, and I would prefer not to wake her up.” I stood, finally content with the roaring blaze, and nearly pushed him into the other armchair before putting my drenched overcoat on the rack next to his. “Stay here. I will get us some tea.”</p>
<p>I left the room without giving him a chance to reply—and without giving myself a chance to lay into him as I still rather wanted to. <em>When you lose your temper, you lose much more than that</em>, my father had warned me so many years ago. I had nearly lost him to Smith—from the ivory box, during the hours I had thought he was dying, with the chance that Smith would have attacked had not Inspector Morton arrived when he did—I did not want to risk losing my temper as well.</p>
<p>The time it took to make a pot of tea allowed me to calm down enough that I was no longer in danger of losing my temper on sight, and I carefully balanced the tray on one arm as I limped my way back into the sitting room, grateful I would not have to bring a pitcher of water as well. The pitcher I kept in the sitting room was fresh just before Mrs. Hudson had come for me, and I rather doubted I would be able to carry that as well as the pot of tea and two cups.</p>
<p>He jumped up when I entered the room, taking the tray from me despite my protests and setting it on the low table near the armchairs. He tried to pour a cup for each of us, but I waved him back to the armchair.</p>
<p>“Sit before you faint, Holmes. Three days of fasting cannot be fixed with one meal.”</p>
<p>“Two.”</p>
<p>I looked up from preparing his cup to see a faint smirk quirking his mouth, and I raised an eyebrow, clearly asking what he meant.</p>
<p>“Mrs. Hudson would not let me leave until I finished a bowl of soup.”</p>
<p>I smirked, handing him his cup and preparing mine. “Two, then. My point remains. Sit before you fall.”</p>
<p>He pulled a face at me but sat, and I carefully cradled my cup as I eased myself into the other armchair. The heat felt wonderful on my hand, and I wrapped my other hand around it once I was settled, enjoying the faint warmth. I had not realized how chilled I had grown outside until I came in. He watched me as I got comfortable, and I watched him in return, wondering what was so important that he had come across town this late at night when he should have been home resting.</p>
<p>He fidgeted as the silence stretched, obviously uncomfortable as he sought the words he wanted to speak, and my curiosity grew. He rarely had to hunt for words, always projecting a collected front that never lacked for something to say, and the silence quickly grew awkward as he fidgeted. I sipped my tea, leaning back in my chair and extending my aching leg towards the fire. I would not prompt him, content to wait for him to decide what he wanted to ask me, and minutes passed in silence.</p>
<p>“I’m sorry.”</p>
<p>He finally spoke as I was lifting my cup for another sip, and I nearly spilled my tea at the quiet words.</p>
<p>“I beg your pardon?” There was no way he had just said what I thought I had heard. I had more than half-expected him to have some awkward medical question for me that he felt could not wait until morning.</p>
<p>“I…should not have deceived you like that,” he said quietly, his gaze looking anywhere but at me as he stumbled through the hesitant words. “It was thoughtless of me.”</p>
<p>“Holmes, I—”</p>
<p>He made eye contact, and my words ground to a halt at the remorse in that gaze. “I should not have done that to you. I would have been furious had you done so to me, and it is a miracle you did not lose your temper with me as I deserve.”</p>
<p>I swallowed, setting my cup to the side as I fought to respond to such an unexpected apology.</p>
<p>“I…don’t know what to say, Holmes,” I told him quietly. “I thought—and with Mary sick—then Mycroft—” My eyes widened, and my broken sentences fled as I remembered that Mycroft had never answered my message, that he would not know that Holmes…</p>
<p>“No, wait.” Holmes’ quick words stopped me as I tried to rise from my armchair. “He came in just after you left. He is back in Pall Mall by now, probably still furious with me.”</p>
<p>I relaxed back into the chair, breathing a sigh of relief as his words registered. “Furious with you?” I repeated. I knew why <em>I</em> was angry with him, of course, though my anger was fading quickly in light of that unexpected apology, but I had no idea why <em>Mycroft</em> would be angry with him.</p>
<p>“You should have heard the lecture he gave me,” he said with the faintest hint of a smirk. “I have not seen him that angry since I used his term paper in an experiment the night before it was due.” A thought crossed his face, and the remorse in his gaze grew. “He made me understand what I did to you today, and…I cannot excuse what I did. I can only ask for your forgiveness, my dear chap.”</p>
<p>What little anger that remained dissolved, and I smiled at him as I picked up my teacup again. I opened my mouth to respond when a voice carried down the hall.</p>
<p>“Mr. Holmes?” Mary’s slightly congested voice said, slowly coming closer. “Are you causing trouble again?”</p>
<p>“Mary!” I set the cup back down and pulled myself to my feet as she entered the sitting room, a blanket draped over her shoulders. “We did not intend to wake you.”</p>
<p>“You didn’t.” She waved me off as a yawn fought its way free. “Oh, excuse me! I woke and noticed you hadn’t come to bed. I could not go back to sleep, so I decided to come find you.”</p>
<p>“Have a seat, Mary. Holmes and I were just talking. I’ll get you a cup.”</p>
<p>The heat had helped, but I was still limping as I slowly made my way to the kitchen. I felt Holmes’ gaze on me the entire time, and I made a point of detouring on the way to where Mary sat. I purposely bumped his chair as I passed, smirking at the look of irritation he gave me as I poured Mary a cup of tea, and his irritation faded to a quirking grin as he read what I was silently telling him.</p>
<p>
  <em>Of course, I forgive you. Why wouldn’t I?</em>
</p>
<p>“So, Holmes,” I started as I reseated myself after seeing Mary settled on the settee, “I seem to remember you mentioning a creative burglar last week? I am sure Mary would be interested in that one.”</p>
<p>“Oh, yes! Tell us about it.”</p>
<p>He tried to hesitate, but he had never been as immune to her imploring gaze as he liked to pretend he was. “Very well,” he said with a put-upon sigh. I smirked, not fooled for a moment, and he made a show of settling in his armchair before he began, “Ms. Katerina Bumble came to me early morning of Monday last, claiming her silver had acquired sentience and was walking on its own…”</p>
<p>I chuckled at the face of disgust he made at her foolishness, leaning back into my armchair as he detailed the case. We stayed that way well into the early morning, remembering old cases, sharing new ones, and making plans for ways Mary and I might be able to help in future ones. After such a trying day, it was worth the dreadful crick in my neck from sleeping in my armchair to find Holmes just stirring in the one opposite. Lord willing, I would never have to see with my eyes the things I had seen in my mind those long, dreadful hours in Holmes’ room, nor would he deceive me like that again.</p>
<p>Given time, I would even be able to forget the plans that had started forming as I prepared myself to return to find him dead.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Feedback is always greatly appreciated :)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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